


The Third Angle

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jealousy Kink, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, topMary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's Sherlock, and there's Mary. Mary is pretty sure that can work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Angle

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to HiddenLacuna and Roane for the betaing, and OvertheMoon for the title.

"That was _dreadful_. Really, John. No wonder you can't keep a girlfriend."

John winces and presses the ice pack a bit harder against the abrasion at his temple. The suspect might not have seemed like much, but she certainly knew how to wield a bottle when cornered. Nice of the pub owner to let them recuperate in the kitchen, after the mess they'd made of the place. 

Of course. Leave it to Sherlock; every business owner in central London might owe him a favor, but the idiot can't be arsed to duck when the situation calls for it.

"I do just fine, thanks," John bites out.

"All you had to do was hold her attention for _five minutes_."

Really. _Really_. 

John hisses against a fresh wave of pain at the too-quick turn of his head. Now _he's_ the one who ought to know better. Bloody Sherlock. 

"And you'd have managed so much better, I suppose. Like you've ever--"

"I have and I _have_ , yes."

Something in Sherlock's tone makes John's throat draw tight around his retort. He lowers the hand clasping the ice pack and leans back in the chair, the throbbing at his temple all but forgotten.

"Really? _You_?"

"Of course." Sherlock's eyes are clear as water; his lip twists upward in a wry expression that stops just short of amusement. "Though you may have a point."

"A point?"

"About the women. Not my preference." Sherlock pauses, takes a deep breath. "Though there have been exceptions."

John swallows hard around nothing, his mouth unaccountably dry. "Exceptions?"

Sherlock's eyes are wide and unwavering. His voice is low and steady, dark with something John can't quite identify. "All of my partners are exceptions, John. I'm _exceptional._ And very thorough." He holds John's gaze for one breath, two. "Best be careful."

John blinks, touches his tongue to his lip.

"Your head," Sherlock says with a wave of his hand. He stands abruptly, the spell broken. "Go along home. I won't be long. Don't wait up."

Still reeling, John can do nothing but watch him go.

***

After that, John sees signs everywhere. If Sherlock isn't the untouchable man he'd always supposed....

John has never considered himself a jealous man, and he'd certainly never entertained the possibility that that might be a turn-on, but somehow just knowing that he'd been wrong, that Sherlock had-- God.

For days--weeks--the impulse to touch continues to surge beneath his skin, hot and forceful as his pulse. John wants to put his hands all over Sherlock, everywhere _they_ might have touched him, invade all the dark, secret places on Sherlock's body that they might have seen. Sherlock had said said _thorough_. Christ. 

Angelo's is warm, maybe too warm; overcompensation in response to the chill outside. John spends the whole time trying not to watch the way Sherlock's fingers swipe idly through the condensation on his glass.

Sherlock has... very long fingers. Really quite nice hands altogether.

He has a vision of Sherlock at nineteen, the fine-honed edges of him not yet fully sharpened, pale eyes gleaming as those same fingers worked open the teeth of his zip. Christ.

He makes it through the meal somehow without embarrassing himself. All the way to Baker Street, in fact. His racing pulse transforms the warmth of is coat into something stifling; he shrugs out of it before Sherlock even finishes closing the door. When he turns, Sherlock is still wrapped in his coat and scarf, just toeing off his shoes.

Sherlock catches John's eye, holds it, then turns deliberately to the wall. The deliberation in Sherlock's movements as he unwinds his scarf and removes his own coat might be John's imagination.

"Sherlock," he says, very low. "If you--"

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock says, too quickly. When he turns, the heat in his eyes pulls John forward until he's crowding Sherlock against the wall. He leans up into the warmth of Sherlock's mouth with the relief of a revelation. One hand finds its way into the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck. The brush of his fingertips against Sherlock's skin is pedestrian contact turned intimate by the force of long-held denial.

Sherlock's fingers curl lightly against the back of John's shoulderblade. Even muffled by two layers of cloth, John feels the jolt of the touch all the way down his spine. 

He presses his hand to the broad plane of Sherlock's chest then brings it lower, lower, until he can hook his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. The backs of his knuckles slide along the thin-stretched skin over Sherlock's iliac crest, silky and smooth and _hot_ , then around to cup the curve of his arse. His fingertips tighten against half-familiar muscle and Sherlock groans into his mouth.

*Thorough*. Christ.

But Sherlock's phone chimes once,

( _"Ignore it,"_ John says, and Sherlock grins wide against his open mouth.)

then a second time,

( _"Maybe you should just be sure--"_

 _"It's nothing that won't keep," Sherlock bites out, cutting him off._ )

then a third, followed immediately by the buzz of John's phone in his pocket.

John's hands are shaking with the force of how much he wants this--this, right here; nothing else--but he can't ignore the instinct telling him he has to at least check. 

He forces himself to pull away long enough to slide his phone from his pocket. He reads the screen and has to swallow his groan.

"It's Lestrade. I'm to drag you away from whatever's keeping you occupied." He breathes, steadies himself. It hurts. "Probably important enough to go."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock huffs, aggrieved, and tightens his arm briefly around John's waist before letting his hand fall away. " **Fine**."

John's back, where Sherlock's touch is newly missing, feels abruptly chilled. "To be continued," he says, tugging at his shirt to straighten it.

Sherlock's smile is dark and full of promise. "Oh, you can be sure of that."

 

Two days later, Sherlock bids John farewell from four storeys up, leaving John to mourn both his best friend and--privately; shamefully--their missed chance.

***

Then there's Mary.

Mary is different. John has had his share of women, but never one like this. Never one so unashamed, so willing to take what she wants.

He meets her outside a shop on his way home one evening. She's balanced on one knee on the rain-soaked pavement, trying to fix the slipped chain on her bicycle. He watches the slick metal slip from her fingers, followed by a soft, albeit heartfelt, curse.

"Need some help?"

She peers up at him through the rain, fixes him with a level stare through hair plastered to her forehead. "Lift the back wheel, will you?"

John does, looping his carrier bags over his right wrist to free up a hand. She pushes the chain and turns the pedal and breathes out a triumphant _Ha!_ as the gear reengages.

"Ta." She stands, bringing them face to face. Her eyes are blue and clear. "Happens all the time. Utter rubbish." 

John waves a hand to indicate the rain still pouring down. "You can't mean to ride home in this."

Mary breaks into a wide grin. "Not at all. You're going to take me for a pint."

***  
Later, in bed, she laughs against his mouth then pushes him onto his back. She comes first, one hand braced on his chest, the other threaded into his hair, pink-cheeked and gorgeous. Still laughing. John's orgasm feels like it's being torn out of him, ripped from the base of his spine by the joyful, insistent pull of her body.

Mary makes him feel like he's part of something important. Together they're simply more--bigger--than he could ever be alone.

He's felt like that before. In the army. With Sherlock. Once, twice lucky; a thid time is more than he could ever ask for. At this point in his life, he knows better than to waste a chance like this. Doubly so when that chance takes the form of a gorgeous woman, lying in his bed--in his _bed_ \--with her hair fanned across his pillow.

He gathers himself, prepares to mutter something like _Can I call you?_ , but when he looks at her, she's already smiling. "I'm off work early on Thursday," she says, "if you want to do this again."

He does. Christ, he really does.

They go out a second time, and a third the next night. He learns that she works as a child psychologist, that she hates to cook, that she wouldn't mind getting a dog someday. Within a few months they move into a brownstone on the edge of London centre. It's farther out than he'd ever want to live on his own. John is only mildly surprised to discover that he wants to follow her there.

They're putting the books away on their new bookshelves when Mary suggests, almost casually, that they might want to get married. 

John finds he wants to follow her there, too. 

***

 

Sherlock pops back into his life on a Wednesday evening in early November. For a while, John doesn't know what to do with that. Doesn't know what to do with that _at all_ , until abruptly he does. If he ever had a choice about following Sherlock Holmes, he made his decision long ago.

A few months later, Sherlock calls. _I need your help_ , he says. John promises he'll be there as soon as possible, then sets his phone aside and steadily resumes his work at the small medical practice at which he had only recently found employment. When the last of the day's paperwork is filed away, he takes the Tube to central London.

He finds Sherlock standing just inside the line of yellow crime scene tape, arguing with a plainclothes officer John has never seen before. Sherlock meets his eye, nods once, and lets the delay go unremarked.

It feels like an apology.

"Attempted murder," Sherlock says as he lifts the tape for John to duck under. "Or at least, that's what the police are saying. But then they also claim there's nothing to go on." 

"But you've got something."

Sherlock's quick smile is achingly familiar. "They're idiots. We'll prove it twice before sunrise."

It turns into the sort of night John thought he would never have again: Sherlock first claiming, then demonstrating, that the so-called attempted murder was staged in order to set the stage for the "victim" to fake her own death. Sherlock confronts her in her sitting room; when she climbs out the window and tries to make her escape, John is waiting at the end of the lane.

Still, she's a spry young thing. They chase her halfway across the district before they catch her.

"Good work, John," Sherlock says, still breathless, and John can do nothing to hide his grin.

John makes it to work on time, but it's a close thing. Mary is already there when he arrives. She smiles as she hands him his coffee.

"Good night, was it?" 

John has to admit, it really was.

That night he falls into an exhausted sleep. He dreams an image familiar from long ago: Sherlock, leaning against the wall. This time, he's opening the buttons on his shirt.

For a moment, John thinks Sherlock is watching him, but then he realises that Sherlock's dark, gleaming eyes are trained on the partner kneeling at his feet. With the logic of dreams, John understands that the familiar blonde head has both only just appeared and been there all along. 

Sherlock is still looking down at the figure at his feet, but the question he asks is clearly meant for John. "You don't mind, do you?" 

John means to shake his head, and finds that he can't move. Sherlock understands him all the same. His voice is a low, pleased rumble.

"No. I knew you wouldn't." 

Sherlock lets his shirt slide backward over his shoulders. Still kneeling, his partner turns to look at John with a smile sharp enough to cut glass, confirming what he'd known all along.

Mary.

John wakes gasping into the darkness above him, pulse hammering in his ears. Beside him, Mary shifts, but doesn't wake.

Oh, Christ, is he in trouble.

***

Try as he might, John can't get the image out of his head. It shows up in more dreams; worse, it shows up when he's awake. He gets himself off to it, more than once. He tells himself it's just a fantasy, that he has no reason to feel ashamed.

Nearly a month later, he and Mary meet some of her colleagues at a pub. The conversation turns to work: office politics, administrative staff whom John has never met. John finds he can't stop his mind from wandering. When Mary turns away from him he catches sight of the back of her head, and downs the rest of his drink far too quickly.

They take a cab home. Mary is hunting for the keys to the brownstone when John's phone buzzes.

"Himself?" Meaning Sherlock, of course.

"Yes." The text contains a mundane question, one Sherlock could easily have answered himself. More up Sherlock's street than John's, in fact. 

John thumbs out his response: `You're the chemist`. 

He's not drunk, precisely, but he could have passed on the last round.

"You can go if you need to."

John's phone buzzes again.

"He doesn't need me now." Which is true enough; if he did, John would go without a second thought, and Mary wouldn't mind.

 _You're welcome, now piss off_ , he types.

"Just your attention." Her words are utterly without malice, though it's long been a joke between them that her profession has suited her well to understand Sherlock's antics. She crouches down in the doorway and sets her purse on the step to search it properly.

"Always."

Mary laughs, half response, half triumph as she finally produces her key. 

She stand and slips it into the lock before speaking again. 

"How are you doing, with... all of it? With him."

The directness of the question is enough of a surprise that John can't summon an answer. Mary pushes the door open and turns.

"I like him. You know that, right? Not what he did, but I can see why he was so important to you."

"He's a prat. An utter wanker. He--"

"Yes." Mary still hasn't stepped through the doorway. Her eyes are wide and close, so close, her expression utterly forthright. She knows him better than anyone. Almost anyone.

God, how he loves her.

He doesn't mean to say bring it up at all. He shouldn't; can't stop himself.

"We didn't," he says. "We-- we never."

She blinks, touches her tongue to her lip. "You didn't get a chance."

John nods.

"But you-- do you want to?"

He doesn't know the answer to that, precisely. There's an unfamiliar heat beginning to build at the base of his throat. 

"Sometimes I-- I think about you fucking him."

Which isn't even _true_ , exactly, but it's as close as he knows how to get. He regrets the words as soon as he hears himself give them voice. Mary's blush is visible even in the low light of the shadowed doorway. 

John opens his mouth to apologise, but the words catch in his throat. Christ, it hadn't even been what she was asking, not at all, he shouldn't have-- he didn't mean-- 

Then Mary smiles, slow, teeth just parted behind the soft stretch of her lips.

"I think that could work."

***

Later, Mary is lying between John's spread thighs, sliding her mouth slowly along the firm line of his erection. She pulls off abruptly and says, low and breathless, "I'm going to fuck him, and you're going to _watch_." 

John fishes after words, _any words_ , and manages only syllables.

"What do you think? Fingers? Or should I,"--here, she runs the backs of her nails down his still-wet length, her mouth twisting mischieviously as his breath breaks into something ragged and formless-- "Would you rather I do it properly?"

John can't help the image that springs to his mind: the strap-on she keeps in the drawer, dark in contrast to Sherlock's pale arse; the snap of her hips as it slides it in, and in; the _sounds_ Sherlock would--

John gasps out, "Yes, Mary, _fuck_." 

She breathes out a quick laugh and swallows him down again. It's too much. The tension in his spine surges so quickly that he scarcely gets the words out before he's shaking, spilling into the wet heat of her mouth; utterly helpless.

***

He's just leaving the surgery when he gets her text.

_Hurry home. I have a surprise waiting for you._

***

When he pushes open the door to the brownstone, it's to find Mary sitting on the sofa, angled forward with her elbows propped on her knees. When she sees him come in she leans back, pushes her hair out of her eyes, and says, simply, "He's in."

"He's--" John says, still catching up. He turns to see Sherlock standing by the entrance to the kitchen, his white dress shirt open at the neck, barefoot. There's an incongrously bright wash of colour high in his cheeks. 

For a moment, John thinks he might choke. "I-- he's--"

Mary stands. "He's _in_."

There's a gap between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her boots, just a glimpse of pale skin. Lovely. John can't decide where to look.

She walks past John to stand square in front of Sherlock. Face to face, her eyes are about on level with his collarbone, but she tips her chin upward and meets him glare for glare, staring him down.

John swallows hard.

She says, soft and unmistakably urgent, “Do you trust me?”

Sherlock draws himself up and back, regards her down the length of his nose. His voice when he answers is a low rumble; he doesn’t break her gaze. 

“ _He_ does.” It’s not quite a challenge, but it’s close. 

Mary takes a breath, parses the statement, and smiles.

“All right, then,” she says. “I want you naked.”


End file.
